I
She stands at the heart of her altar; the herald of fierce doom, gentle smiles, fain fordid, cast eliads, pleas of liberty! Bestower of sovereignty, crowner of monarchs, forebear of utopia, paragon of heaven-daughter peace- goddess Freedom observes, inquisitive, of the novel merchants come to prosper her land. Hecatombs of tea, they swathe her in gilded silk and turn the zephyr amber with the redolent spice, adding to her aureate being, her heart is satisfied- they are welcomed as her children- a high honour.
But their eyes asquint, their minds turn wicked, she is tricked! She is cozened! Her soulful marmoris of ethereal nepenthe turns incarnadine, her verses turn outraged, they drum a thunder that shakes the heavens, splits the earth and shatters the galaxies, and yet, and yet these mere merchants do not heed her warning. Fie! Fie upon these traitorous traders!
Anon, her termagant and violent heart calms, and she hopes that her children, her new progeny, shall see reason.
II
Sycophants! They turn her faithful people emaciated, plunder her treasury, despoil her abundant lands, pillage her subjects, enslave them, think them less! Declare that they would rule her? Fools!
These pale miscreants dare too much, her children shall prevail once more.
Alas! Her virtuous progeny are reluctant to let go of once-family, cousins of before- plead to reason calmly.
Pran jaye, parivachan na jaye. Death may come, but promises will not be broken.
III
Deity Freedom rages with the force of a storm that could destroy a thousand suns, and birth a thousand more, with a fury so abhorrent that it bleeds and burns into the hearts of her true children-
Unawares, shackles cling to her pious entity, binding chains around her lotus feet, egal to scorching iron is thrust upon her golden skin- she voices her throes and pains, it echoes in the hearts of her subjects, reflects in the skies, the seas and the trees, whom inform timid-child Hope of the imprisonment of the high queen- and flee along with the little one.
Abnegated, Freedom and daughter Bharat, spurned by manacles preordained, sing of a baneful anguish, ruinous melancholy, a beguiling desolation, and a serene penury, an orchestra that is heard between collapse and deceitful creation, between crooked grins and tristful downturns, in the heart of every grandchild of hers.
IV
From a tyrant duke unto a tyrant brother, from a doleful grandfather, unto a doleful grandchild, from a mournful people to their mournful children, goddess Freedom weakens in the bind of her burning shackles, beauty and divinity slowly withering away. Her ruby lips fade to ash, her eyes - broken black diamonds of night that sparkled with the light of a million spirits- now wilt, her strong figure wanes- and so do her people.
Pallid rogues tear at the ethereal tapestry of people, religion, and tradition, immersed in sacred celestial gold- they assail against the nation of the gods. They make bold to diminish mighty culture- enforce laws that defy beliefs of her pious people, coerce them to sin against their religion in jest.
With no expedience, they disfigure her aureate nation, tearing at all wealth that adorns her pure peninsula. Infinite tears stream down her copper-hued cheeks, she mourns, effeminate heart in agonising grief of a million pained mothers and a million grave fathers, and quietly promises amerce, the stars witness.
V
From poets to peasants, scholars to schoolers, monarchs to mothers, farmers to fathers, crafters to crawlers, everyone is called to fight- to drive these uncivilised mongrels away.
Her people are warriors wronged, tempests tested, fates challenged, and they shall exalt their revenge, and free their goddess. Arm’d with a tiger-footed rage, a loathing adorned with the herculean strength of her nation’s ire, they drive the merchant-monarchs away, still touched by the gentle mercy preached to them by their high queen.
The free sun casts a scintillating glow upon goddess freedom, shattering her scorching tethers, and she is illuminated with an eliadic iridescent glitter that returns her melodies to her. She roars, and she is reborne between soft sand and burning stardust, between her people and all those that dare cross her once more.
The children rejoice, together, hearts lightened- they have saved their goddess, and themselves. They are slaves no longer. But, the British are not without influence, eager and tentative, a new epoch begins for the nation, they have arisen from a dark nightmare to beautiful daylight- but the nightmare still curls it's fear around her children, for now they are divided.
At the stroke of the midnight hour, goddess Freedom, along with daughter India, awaken to life and liberty, dancing jubilant to the rhythm of evergreen elysium, of petite hopes and mighty dreams.
“At the stroke of the midnight hour, when the world sleeps,
India will awaken to life and freedom.”
-Jawaharlal Nehru
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